Comment:
Here is yet another 'religious' secret society, which
attracts members in politics and high places, by
pretending to be a "Christian Group". Like Mr. Sharlet
says in the Q & A article:"it's sort of like peeling an onion."

This is the way to recruit members, whom still are not
aware of the full Agenda. Slowly, and little by little,
they get indoctrinated and brainwashed into believing
the occult goal of the Illuminati is a good thing. Yes,
that is the scary part - these people think they are
doing a 'good thing'!

This is the second and last part of the story of Hillary
Clinton and her religious and political faith. Before
you read this article below, I strongly suggest you read
part one first:. Wes
Penre,www.illuminati-news.com

his is how they
pray: a dozen clear-eyed, smooth-skinned “brothers” gathered
together in a huddle, arms crossing arms over shoulders like the
weave of a cable, leaning in on one another and swaying like the
long grass up the hill from the house they share. The house is a
handsome, gray, two-story colonial that smells of new carpet and
Pine-Sol and aftershave; the men who live there call it Ivanwald.
At the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac, quiet but for the buzz of
lawn mowers and kids playing foxes-and-hounds in the park across
the road, Ivanwald sits as one house among many, clustered
together like mushrooms, all devoted, like these men, to the
service of Jesus Christ. The men tend every tulip in the
cul-de-sac, trim every magnolia, seal every driveway smooth and
black as boot leather. And they pray, assembled at the dining
table or on their lawn or in the hallway or in the bunk room or
on the basketball court, each man's head bowed in humility and
swollen with pride (secretly, he thinks) at being counted among
such a fine corps for Christ, among men to whom he will open his
heart and whom he will remember when he returns to the world not
born-again but remade, no longer an individual but part of the
Lord's revolution, his will transformed into a weapon for what
the young men call “spiritual war.”

“Jeff, will you
lead us in prayer?”

Surely, brother.
It is April 2002, and I have lived with these men for weeks now,
not as a Christian—a term they deride as too narrow for the
world they are building in Christ's honor—but as a “believer.” I
have shared the brothers' meals and their work and their games.
I have been numbered among them and have been given a part in
their ministry. I have wrestled with them and showered with them
and listened to their stories: I know which man resents his
father's fortune and which man succumbed to the flesh of a woman
not once but twice and which man dances so well he is afraid of
being taken for a fag. I know what it means to be a “brother,”
which is to say that I know what it means to be a soldier in the
army of God.

Ivanwald, which
sits at the end of Twenty-fourth Street North in Arlington,
Virginia, is known only to its residents and to the members and
friends of the organization that sponsors it, a group of
believers who refer to themselves as “the Family.” The Family
is, in its own words, an “invisible” association, though its
membership has always consisted mostly of public men. Senators
Don Nickles (R., Okla.), Charles Grassley (R., Iowa), Pete
Domenici (R., N.Mex.), John Ensign (R., Nev.), James Inhofe (R.,
Okla.), Bill Nelson (D., Fla.), and Conrad Burns (R., Mont.) are
referred to as “members,” as are Representatives Jim DeMint (R.,
S.C.), Frank Wolf (R., Va.), Joseph Pitts (R., Pa.), Zach Wamp
(R., Tenn.), and Bart Stupak (D., Mich.). Regular prayer groups
have met in the Pentagon and at the Department of Defense, and
the Family has traditionally fostered strong ties with
businessmen in the oil and aerospace industries. The Family
maintains a closely guarded database of its associates, but it
issues no cards, collects no official dues. Members are asked
not to speak about the group or its activities.

The organization
has operated under many guises, some active, some defunct:
National Committee for Christian Leadership, International
Christian Leadership, the National Leadership Council,
Fellowship House, the Fellowship Foundation, the National
Fellowship Council, the International Foundation. These groups
are intended to draw attention away from the Family, and to
prevent it from becoming, in the words of one of the Family's
leaders, “a target for misunderstanding.” 1
The Los Angeles Times reported in September that the
Fellowship Foundation alone has an annual budget of $10 million,
but that represents only a fraction of the Family's finances.
Each of the Family's organizations raises funds independently.
Ivanwald, for example, is financed at least in part by an entity
called the Wilberforce Foundation[editor's link]. Other projects are financed
by individual “friends”: wealthy businessmen, foreign
governments, church congregations, or mainstream foundations
that may be unaware of the scope of the Family's activities. At Ivanwald, when I asked to what organization a donation check
might be made, I was told there was none; money was raised on a
“man-to-man” basis. Major Family donors named by the Times
include Michael Timmis, a Detroit lawyer and Republican
fund-raiser; Paul Temple, a private investor from Maryland; and
Jerome A. Lewis, former CEO of the Petro-Lewis Corporation.
The Family's only publicized gathering is the National
Prayer Breakfast, which it established in 1953 and which, with
congressional sponsorship, it continues to organize every
February in Washington, D.C. Each year 3,000 dignitaries,
representing scores of nations, pay $425 each to attend.
Steadfastly ecumenical, too bland most years to merit much
press, the breakfast is regarded by the Family as merely a tool
in a larger purpose: to recruit the powerful attendees into
smaller, more frequent prayer meetings, where they can “meet
Jesus man to man.”

In the process
of introducing powerful men to Jesus, the Family has managed to
effect a number of behind-the-scenes acts of diplomacy. In 1978
it secretly helped the Carter Administration organize a
worldwide call to prayer with Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat,
and more recently, in 2001, it brought together the warring
leaders of Congo and Rwanda for a clandestine meeting, leading
to the two sides' eventual peace accord last July. Such benign
acts appear to be the exception to the rule. During the 1960s
the Family forged relationships between the U.S. government and
some of the most anti-Communist (and dictatorial) elements
within Africa's postcolonial leadership. The Brazilian dictator
General Costa e Silva, with Family support, was overseeing
regular fellowship groups for Latin American leaders, while, in
Indonesia, General Suharto (whose tally of several hundred
thousand “Communists” killed marks him as one of the century's
most murderous dictators) was presiding over a group of fifty
Indonesian legislators. During the Reagan Administration the
Family helped build friendships between the U.S. government and
men such as Salvadoran general Carlos Eugenios Vides Casanova,
convicted by a Florida jury of the torture of thousands, and
Honduran general Gustavo Alvarez Martinez, himself an
evangelical minister, who was linked to both the CIA and death
squads before his own demise. “We work with power where we can,”
the Family's leader, Doug Coe, says, “build new power where we
can't.”

The Stealth Persuader: Many
people think Congress is the host of the gala annual National
Prayer Breakfast, which takes place this week. It is not. The
breakfast is organized by 33 members of Congress who belong to a
well-connected but secretive Christian group called the
Fellowship Foundation, which is run by Douglas Coe. Coe, 76, has
been called the "stealth Billy Graham." He specializes in the
spiritual struggles of the powerful.
Several members of Congress live in rooms rented in a town house
owned by a foundation affiliated with the group. Coe and his
associates sometimes travel (on their own dime) with
congressional members abroad and—according to investigations by
the Los Angeles Times and Harper's—have played backstage roles
in such diplomatic coups as the 1976 Camp David accords. Yet Coe
also befriends dictators. "He would still hold out hope that
these people could be redeemed and try to work through them to
help the people over whom they have authority," says Richard
Carver, president of the Fellowship's board of directors. Some
skeptical Evangelicals criticize Coe's indiscriminate alliances
and his downplaying of Jesus' divinity in favor of his earthly
teachings—which allows Coe to pray with Muslim and Buddhist
leaders. But few turn down an opportunity to confer with him.
[Editor's link and picture addition]

At the 1990
National Prayer Breakfast, George H.W. Bush praised Doug Coe for
what he described as “quiet diplomacy, I wouldn't say secret
diplomacy,” as an “ambassador of faith.” Coe has visited nearly
every world capital, often with congressmen at his side, “making
friends” and inviting them back to the Family's unofficial
headquarters, a mansion (just down the road from Ivanwald) that
the Family bought in 1978 with $1.5 million donated by, among
others, Tom Phillips, then the C.E.O. of arms manufacturer
Raytheon, and Ken Olsen, the founder and president of Digital
Equipment Corporation. A waterfall has been carved into the
mansion's broad lawn, from which a bronze bald eagle watches
over the Potomac River. The mansion is white and pillared and
surrounded by magnolias, and by red trees that do not so much
tower above it as whisper. The mansion is named for these trees;
it is called The Cedars, and Family members speak of it as a
person. “The Cedars has a heart for the poor,” they like to say.
By “poor” they mean not the thousands of literal poor living
barely a mile away but rather the poor in spirit, for
theirs is the kingdom: the senators, generals, and prime
ministers who coast to the end of Twenty-fourth Street in
Arlington in black limousines and town cars and hulking S.U.V.'s
to meet one another, to meet Jesus, to pay homage to the god of
The Cedars.

There they forge
“relationships” beyond the din of vox populi (the Family's
leaders consider democracy a manifestation of ungodly pride) and
“throw away religion” in favor of the truths of the Family.
Declaring God's covenant with the Jews broken, the group's core
members call themselves “the new chosen.”

The brothers of
Ivanwald are the Family's next generation, its high priests in
training. I had been recommended for membership by a banker
acquaintance, a recent Ivanwald alumnus, who had mistaken my
interest in Jesus for belief. Sometimes the brothers would ask
me why I was there. They knew that I was “half Jewish,” that I
was a writer, and that I was from New York City, which most of
them considered to be only slightly less wicked than Baghdad or
Amsterdam. I told my brothers that I was there to meet Jesus,
and I was: the new ruling Jesus, whose ways are secret.

* * *

At Ivanwald, men
learn to be leaders by loving their leaders. “They're so busy
loving us,” a brother once explained to me, “but who's loving
them?” We were. The brothers each paid $400 per month for room
and board, but we were also the caretakers of The Cedars,
cleaning its gutters, mowing its lawns, whacking weeds and
blowing leaves and sanding. And we were called to serve on
Tuesday mornings, when The Cedars hosted a regular prayer
breakfast typically presided over by Ed Meese, the former
attorney general. Each week the breakfast brought together a
rotating group of ambassadors, businessmen, and American
politicians. Three of Ivanwald's brothers also attended, wearing
crisp shirts starched just for the occasion; one would sit at
the table while the other two poured coffee.

The morning I
attended, Charlene, the cook, scrambled up eggs with blue
tortillas, Italian sausage, red pepper, and papaya. Three women
from Potomac Point, an “Ivanwald for girls” across the road from
The Cedars, came to help serve. They wore red lipstick and long
skirts (makeup and “feminine” attire were required) and had,
after several months of cleaning and serving in The Cedars while
the brothers worked outside, become quite unimpressed by the
high-powered clientele. “Girls don't sit in on the breakfasts,”
one of them told me, though she said that none of them minded
because it was “just politics.”

The breakfast
began with a prayer and a sprinkle of scripture from Meese, who
sat at the head of the table. Matthew 11:27: “No one knows the
Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the
Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.” That
morning's chosen introduced themselves. They were businessmen
from Dallas and Oregon, a Chinese Christian dissident, a man who
ran an aid group for Tibetan refugees (the Dalai Lama had been
very positive on Jesus at their last meeting, he reported). Two
ambassadors, from Benin and Rwanda, sat side by side. Rwanda's
representative, Dr. Richard Sezibera, was an intense man who
refused to eat his eggs or even any melon. He drank cup after
cup of coffee, and his eyes were bloodshot. A man I didn't
recognize, whom Charlene identified as a former senator,
suggested that negotiators from Rwanda and Congo, trapped in a
war that has slain more than 2 million, should stop worrying
about who will get the diamonds and the oil and instead focus on
who will get Jesus. “Power sharing is not going to work unless
we change their hearts,” he said.

Sezibera stared,
incredulous. Meese chuckled and opened his mouth to speak, but
Sezibera interrupted him. “It is not so simple,” the Rwandan
said, his voice flat and low. Meese smiled. Everyone in the
Family loves rebukes, and here was Rwanda rebuking them. The
former senator nodded. Meese murmured, “Yes,” stroking his
maroon leather Bible, and the words “Thank you, Jesus” rippled
in whispers around the table as I poured Sezibera another cup of
coffee.

The brothers
also served at the Family's four-story, redbrick Washington town
house, a former convent at 133 C Street S.E. complete with
stained-glass windows. Eight congressmen—including Senator
Ensign and seven representatives2.
According to the Los Angeles Times, congressmen who have
lived there include Rep. Mike Doyle (D., Pa.), former Rep. Ed
Bryant (R., Tenn.), and former Rep. John Elias Baldacci (D.,
Maine). The house's eight congressman-tenants each pay $600 per
month in rent for use of a town house that includes nine
bathrooms and five living rooms. When the Times asked
then-resident Rep. Bart Stupak (D., Mich.) about the property,
he replied, “We sort of don't talk to the press about the
house.”—lived there, brothers in Christ just like us,
only more powerful. We scrubbed their toilets, hoovered their
carpets, polished their silver. The day I worked at C Street I
ran into Doug Coe, who was tutoring Todd Tiahrt, a Republican
congressman from Kansas. A friendly, plainspoken man with a
bright, lazy smile, Coe has worked for the Family since 1959,
soon after he graduated from college, and has led it since 1969.

Tiahrt was a
short shot glass of a man, two parts flawless hair and one part
teeth. He wanted to know the best way “for the Christian to win
the race with the Muslim.” The Muslim, he said, has too many
babies, while Americans kill too many of theirs.

Doug agreed this
could be a problem. But he was more concerned that the focus on
labels like “Christian” might get in the way of the
congressman's prayers. Religion distracts people from Jesus,
Doug said, and allows them to isolate Christ's will from their
work in the world.

“People separate
it out,” he warned Tiahrt. “'Oh, okay, I got religion, that's
private.' As if Jesus doesn't know anything about building
highways, or Social Security. We gotta take Jesus out of the
religious wrapping.”

“All right, how
do we do that?” Tiahrt asked.

“A covenant,”
Doug answered. The congressman half-smiled, as if caught between
confessing his ignorance and pretending he knew what Doug was
talking about. “Like the Mafia,” Doug clarified. “Look at the
strength of their bonds.” He made a fist and held it before
Tiahrt's face. Tiahrt nodded, squinting. “See, for them it's
honor,” Doug said. “For us, it's Jesus.”

Coe listed other
men who had changed the world through the strength of the
covenants they had forged with their “brothers”: “Look at
Hitler,” he said. “Lenin, Ho Chi Minh, Bin Laden.” The Family,
of course, possessed a weapon those leaders lacked: the “total
Jesus” of a brotherhood in Christ.

“That's
what you get with a covenant,” said Coe. “Jesus plus nothing.”

* * *

To the Family,
Jesus is not just a name; he is also a real man. “An awesome
guy,” a Family employee named Terry told the brothers over
breakfast one morning. “He excelled in every activity. He was a
great teacher, sure, but he was also a real guy's guy. He would
have made an excellent athlete.”

On my first day
at Ivanwald, on an uneven court behind the house, I learned to
play a two-ball variant of basketball called “bump” that was
designed to sharpen both body and soul. In bump, players compete
at free throws, each vying to sink his own before the man behind
him sinks his. If he hits first then you're out, with one
exception: the basket's net narrows at the chute so that the
ball sometimes sticks, at which point another player can hurl
his ball up from beneath, knocking the first ball out. In this
event everyone cries “Bu-u-ump,” with great joy.

Bengt began it.
He was one of the house's leaders, a twenty-four-year-old North
Carolinian with sad eyes and spiky eyebrows and a loud,
disarming laugh that made him sound like a donkey. From inside
the house, waiting for a phone call, he opened a second-floor
window and called to Gannon for a ball. Gannon, the son of a
Texas oilman, worked as a Senate aide3.
Gannon worked for Senator Don Nickles, then the second-ranking
Republican. The man who oversaw Ivanwald and interviewed us for
admission was a lawyer named Steve South, who formerly had been
Senator Nickles's chief counsel and was still a close associate.;
he had blond hair and a chin like a plow, and he sang in a
choir. He tossed one up, which Bengt caught and dispatched
toward the basket. “Nice,” Gannon drawled as the ball sank
through.

As soon as the
ball bounced off the rim, Beau was at the free-throw line,
taking his shot. Beau was a good-natured Atlantan with the build
of a wrestler; as a bumper he was second only to Bengt.

“It's okay if
you bump into the other guys, too,” Gannon told me as my turn
approached. “The idea's kinda to get that tension building.”
Ahead of me Beau bent his knees to take another shot. The moment
the ball rolled off his fingers, Wayne, also from Georgia,
jumped up and hurled his own ball over Beau's head. As he
returned to earth, his elbow descended on Beau's shoulder like a
hammer. “Bump that,” he said.

Bump was
designed to bring out your hostilities. The Family believes that
you can't grow in Jesus unless you “face your anger,” and then
abandon it. When bump worked right, each man was supposed to
lose himself, forgetting even the precepts of the game.
Sometimes you wanted to get the ball in, sometimes you wanted to
knock it out. In, out, it didn't matter. Your ball, his, who
cared? Bump wasn't horseplay, it was a physicalized theology. It
was to basketball what the New Testament is to the Old: stripped
down to one simple story that always ends the same. Bump, Jesus.
Bump, Jesus.

I stepped to the
line and, after missing, moved in for a layup. Wayne jumped to
the line and shot. “Dude!” he shouted. I looked up. His ball,
meant to hit mine, slammed into my forehead. Bu-u-ump!
the boys hollered. They had bumped me with Christ.

Bengt bumped.
Beau bumped. Gannon bumped. I was out of contention. Gannon
joined me, then Beau. The game was down to Bengt and Wayne. When
Wayne threw from behind Bengt, he hurled the ball with such
force that it sent Bengt chasing his ball into the neighboring
yard. “Tenacious Wayne!” Gannon roared. Wayne scooped up his own
ball, leapt, and slam-dunked Bengt out. “That's yo motha!” he
hollered.

Trotting back to
the court, Bengt shook his head. “You the man, Wayne,” he said.
“Just keep it calm.” Wayne was ready to burst.

“Huddle up
guys,” said Bengt. We formed a circle, arms wrapped around
shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “We're gonna pray now. Lord, I just
want to thank you for bringing us out here today to have
fellowship in bump and for blessing this fine day with a visit
from our new friend Jeff. Lord, we thank you for bringing this
brother to us from up north, because we know he can learn to
bump, and just—love you, and serve you and Lord, let us all
just—Lord, be together in your name. Amen.”

* * *

The regimen was
so precise it was relaxing: no swearing, no drinking, no sex, no
self. Watch out for magazines and don't waste time on newspapers
and never watch TV. Eat meat, study the Gospels, play
basketball: God loves a man who can sink a three-pointer.
Pray to be broken. O Heavenly Father. Dear Jesus. Help me be
humble. Let me do Your will. Every morning began with a prayer,
some days with outsiders—Wednesdays led by a former Ivanwald
brother, now a businessman; Thursdays led by another executive
who used tales of high finance to illuminate our lessons from
scripture, which he supplemented with xeroxed midrash from
Fortune or Fast Company; Fridays with the women of
Potomac Point. But most days it was just us boys, bleary-eyed,
gulping coffee and sugared cereal as Bengt and Jeff Connolly,
Bengt's childhood friend and our other house leader, laid out
lines of Holy Word across the table like strategy.

The dining room
had once been a deck, but the boys had walled it in and roofed
it over and unrolled a red Persian carpet, transforming the room
into a sort of monastic meeting place, with two long tables end
to end, ringed by a dozen chairs and two benches. The first day
I visited Ivanwald, Bengt cleared a space for me at the head of
the table and sat to my right. Beside him, Wayne slumped in his
chair, his eyes hidden by a cowboy hat. Across from him sat
Beau, still wearing the boxers and T-shirt he'd slept in. Bengt
alone looked sharp, his hair combed, golf shirt tucked tightly
into pleated chinos.

Bengt told
Gannon to read our text for that morning, Psalm 139: “'O Lord,
you have searched me and you know me.'” The very first line made
Bengt smile; this was, in his view, an awesome thing for God to
have done. Bengt's manners and naive charm preceded him in every
encounter. When you told him a story he would respond, “Goll-y!”
just to be nice. When genuinely surprised he would exclaim, “Good
ni-ight!” Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was a
self-professed revolutionary.

He asked Gannon
to keep reading, and then leaned back and listened.

“'Where can I go
from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go
up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the
depths, you are there.'”

Bengt raised a
hand. “That's great, dude. Let's talk about that.” The room fell
silent as Bengt stared into his Bible, running his finger up and
down the gilded edge of the page. “Guys,” he said. “What—how
does that make you feel?”

“Known,” said
Gannon, almost in a whisper.

Bengt nodded. He
was looking for something else, but he didn't know where it was.
“What does it make you think of?”

“Jesus?” said
Beau.

Bengt stroked
his chin. “Yeah . . . Let me read you a little more.” He read in
a monotone, accelerating as he went, as if he could persuade us
through a sheer heap of words. “'For you created my inmost
being; you knit me together in my mother's womb,'” he concluded.
His lips curled into a half smile. “Man! I mean, that's intense,
right? 'In my mother's womb'—God's right in there with you.” He
grinned. “It's like,” he said, “it's like, you can't run.
Doesn't matter where you turn, 'cause Jesus is gonna be there,
just waiting for you.”

“Me, too,” Beau
chimed, and then each man clasped his hands into one fist and
pressed it against his forehead or his chin and prayed, eyes
closed and Jesus all over his skin.

* * *

We prayed to be
“nothing.” We were there to “soften our hearts to authority.” We
instituted a rule that every man must wipe the toilet bowl after
he pisses, not for cleanliness but to crush his “inner rebel.”
Jeff C. did so by abstaining from “shady” R-rated movies, lest
they provoke dreams of women. He was built like a leprechaun,
with curly, dark blond hair and freckles and a brilliant smile.
The Potomac Point girls brought him cookies; the wives of the
Family's older men asked him to visit. One night, when the guys
went on a swing-dancing date with the Potomac Pointers, more
worldly women flocked to Jeff C., begging to be dipped and
twirled. The feeling was not mutual. “I just don't like girls as
much as guys,” he told me one day while we painted a new coat of
“Gettysburg Gray” onto Ivanwald. He was speaking not of sex or
of romance but of brotherhood. “I like”—he paused, his brush
suspended midstroke—“competence.”

He ran nearly
every day, often alone, down by the Potomac. On the basketball
court anger sometimes overcame him: “Shoot the ball!” he
would snap at Rogelio, a shy eighteen-year-old from Paraguay,
one of several international brothers. But later Jeff C. would
turn his lapse into a lesson, citing scripture, a verse we were
to memorize or else be banished, by Jeff C. himself, to a night
in the basement. Ephesians, chapter 4, verses 26–27: “'In your
anger do not sin': Do not let the sun go down while you are
still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold.”

Jeff C.'s pride
surfaced in unexpected ways. Once, together in the kitchen after
lunch, I mentioned that I'd seen the soul singer Al Green live.
Jeff C. didn't answer. Instead he disappeared, reemerged with a
Green CD, and set it in the boom box. He pressed play, and
cracked his knuckles and his neck bones. His hands balled into
fists, his eyes widened, and his torso became a jumping bean as
his chest popped out on the downbeat. He heard me laughing,
applauding, but he didn't stop. He started singing along with
the Reverend. He grabbed his crotch and wrenched his shirt up
and ran his hand over his stomach. Then he froze and dropped
back to his ordinary voice as if narrating.

“I used to work
in this pizza parlor,” he said. “It was, like, a buncha . . . I
dunno, junkies. Heroin.” He grinned. “But man, they
loved Al Green. We had a poster of him. He was, he was . . .
man! Shirtless, leather pants. Low leather pants.” Jeff
C. tugged his waistband down. “Hips cocked.” He shook his head
and howled. Moonwalking away, he snapped his knees together, his
feet spread wide, his hands in the air, testifying.

Jeff C. figured
I had a thing against Southerners. Once, he asked if I thought
the South was “racist.” I got it, I tried to tell him, I knew
the North was just as bad, but he wouldn't listen. He told me I
could call him a redneck or a hillbilly (I never called him
either), but the truth was that he was “blacker” than me. He
told me of his deep love for black gospel churches. Loving black
people, he told me, made him a better follower of Christ.
“Remember that story Cal Thomas told?” he asked. Thomas, a
syndicated columnist, had recently stopped by Ivanwald for a
mixer with young congressional staffers. He had regaled his
audience with stories about tweaking his liberal colleagues, in
particular about when he had addressed a conference of
nonbelievers by asking if anyone knew where to buy a good
“negro.” Jeff C. thought it was hilarious but also profound.
What Thomas had meant, he told me, was that absent the teachings
of Jesus there was no reason for the strong not to enslave the
weak.

* * *

Two weeks into
my stay, David Coe, Doug's son and the presumptive heir to
leadership of the Family, dropped by the house. My brothers and
I assembled in the living room, where David had draped his tall
frame over a burgundy leather recliner like a frat boy, one leg
hanging over a padded arm.

“You guys,”
David said, “are here to learn how to rule the world.” He was in
his late forties, with dark, gray-flecked hair, an olive
complexion, and teeth like a slab of white marble. We sat around
him in a rough circle, on couches and chairs, as the afternoon
light slanted through the wooden blinds onto walls adorned with
foxhunting lithographs and a giant tapestry of the Last Supper.
Rafael, a wealthy Ecuadoran who'd been a college soccer star
before coming to Ivanwald, had a hard time with English, and he
didn't understand what David had said. So he stared, lips parted
in puzzlement. David seemed to like that. He stared back,
holding Raf's gaze like it was a pretty thing he'd found on the
ground. “You have very intense eyes,” David said.

“Thank you,” Raf
mumbled.

“Hey,” David
said, “let's talk about the Old Testament. Who would you say are
its good guys?”

“David,” Beau
volunteered.

“King David,”
David Coe said. “That's a good one. David. Hey. What would you
say made King David a good guy?” He was giggling, not from
nervousness but from barely containable delight.

“Faith?” Beau
said. “His faith was so strong?”

“Yeah.” David
nodded as if he hadn't heard that before. “Hey, you know what's
interesting about King David?” From the blank stares of the
others I could see that they did not. Many didn't even carry a
Hebrew Bible, preferring a slim volume of just the New Testament
Gospels and Epistles and, from the Old, Psalms. Others had the
whole book, but the gold gilt on the pages of the first two
thirds remained undisturbed. “King David,” David Coe went on,
“liked to do really, really bad things.” He chuckled. “Here's
this guy who slept with another man's wife—Bathsheba, right?—and
then basically murders her husband. And this guy is one of our
heroes.” David shook his head. “I mean, Jiminy Christmas, God
likes this guy! What,” he said, “is that all about?”

The answer, we
discovered, was that King David had been “chosen.” To illustrate
this point David Coe turned to Beau. “Beau, let's say I hear you
raped three little girls. And now here you are at Ivanwald. What
would I think of you, Beau?”

Beau shrank into
the cushions. “Probably that I'm pretty bad?”

“No, Beau. I
wouldn't. Because I'm not here to judge you. That's not my job.
I'm here for only one thing.”

“Jesus?” Beau
said. David smiled and winked.

He walked to the
National Geographic map of the world mounted on the wall. “You
guys know about Genghis Khan?” he asked. “Genghis was a man with
a vision. He conquered”—David stood on the couch under the map,
tracing, with his hand, half the northern hemisphere—“nearly
everything. He devastated nearly everything. His enemies? He
beheaded them.” David swiped a finger across his throat. “Dop,
dop, dop, dop.”

David explained
that when Genghis entered a defeated city he would call in the
local headman and have him stuffed into a crate. Over the crate
would be spread a tablecloth, and on the tablecloth would be
spread a wonderful meal. “And then, while the man suffocated,
Genghis ate, and he didn't even hear the man's screams.” David
still stood on the couch, a finger in the air. “Do you know what
that means?” He was thinking of Christ's parable of the
wineskins. “You can't pour new into old,” David said, returning
to his chair. “We elect our leaders. Jesus elects his.”

He reached over
and squeezed the arm of a brother. “Isn't that great?” David
said. “That's the way everything in life happens. If you're a
person known to be around Jesus, you can go and do anything. And
that's who you guys are. When you leave here, you're not only
going to know the value of Jesus, you're going to know the
people who rule the world. It's about vision. 'Get your vision
straight, then relate.' Talk to the people who rule the world,
and help them obey. Obey Him. If I obey Him myself, I
help others do the same. You know why? Because I become a
warning. We become a warning. We warn everybody that the
future king is coming. Not just of this country or that, but of
the world.” Then he pointed at the map, toward the Khan's vast,
reclaimable empire.

* * *

One night I
asked Josh, a brother from Atlanta who was hoping to do mission
work overseas, if I could look at some materials the Family had
given him. “Man, I'd love to share them with you,” he said, and
retrieved from his bureau drawer two folders full of documents.
While my brothers slept, I sat at the end of our long, oak
dining table and copied them into my notebook.

In a document
entitled “Our Common Agreement as a Core Group,” members of the
Family are instructed to form a “core group,” or a “cell,” which
is defined as “a publicly invisible but privately identifiable
group of companions.” A document called “Thoughts on a Core
Group” explains that “Communists use cells as their basic
structure. The mafia operates like this, and the basic unit of
the Marine Corps is the four man squad. Hitler, Lenin, and many
others understood the power of a small core of people.”

Another
document, “Thoughts and Principles of the Family,” sets forth
political guidelines, such as

21. We recognize the place and
responsibility of national secular leaders in the
work of advancing His kingdom.

23. To the world in general we
will say that we are “in Christ” rather than
“Christian”—“Christian” having become a political term in
most of the world and in the United States a meaningless
term.

24. We desire to see a
leadership led by God—leaders of all levels of society who
direct projects as they are led by the spirit.

and
self-examination questions:

4. Do I give only verbal assent
to the policies of the family or am I a partner in seeking
the mind of the Lord?

7. Do I agree with and practice
the financial precepts of the family?4.
The Family's “financial precepts” apparently amount to the
practice of soliciting funds only privately, and often
indirectly. This may also refer to what some members call
“biblical capitalism,” the belief that God's economics are
laissez-faire.

13. Am I willing to work
without human recognition?

When the group
is ready, “Thoughts on a Core Group” explains, it can set to
work:

After being together for a
while, in this closer relationship, God will give you more
insight into your own geographical area and your sphere of
influence—make your opportunities a matter of prayer.
. . . The primary purpose of a core group is not to become
an “action group,” but an invisible “believing group.”
However, activity normally grows out of agreements reached
in faith and in prayer around the person of Jesus Christ.

Long-term goals
were best summarized in a document called “Youth Corps Vision.”
Another Family project, Youth Corps distributes pleasant
brochures featuring endorsements from political leaders—among
them Tsutomu Hata, a former prime minister of Japan, former
secretary of state James Baker, and Yoweri Museveni, president
of Uganda—and full of enthusiastic rhetoric about helping young
people to learn the principles of leadership. The word “Jesus”
is unmentioned in the brochure.

But “Youth Corps
Vision,” which is intended only for members of the Family (“it's
kinda secret,” Josh cautioned me), is more direct.

The Vision is to mobilize
thousands of young people world wide—committed to principle
precepts, and person of Jesus Christ. . . .
A group of highly dedicated individuals who are united
together having a total commitment to use their lives to
daily seek to mature into people who talk like Jesus, act
like Jesus, think like Jesus. This group will have the
responsibility to:
—see that the commitment and action is maintained to the
overall vision;
—see that the finest and best invisible organization is
developed and maintained at all levels of the work;
—even though the structure is hidden, see that the family
atmosphere is maintained, so that all people can feel a part
of the family.

Another
document—“Regional Reports, January 3, 2002”—lists some of the
nations where Youth Corps programs are already in operation:
Russia, Ukraine, Romania, India, Pakistan, Uganda, Nepal,
Bhutan, Ecuador, Honduras, Peru. Youth Corps is, in many
respects, a more aggressive version of Young Life, a
better-known network of Christian youth groups that entice
teenagers with parties and sports, and only later work Jesus
into the equation. Most of my American brothers at Ivanwald had
been among Young Life's elite, and many had returned to Young
Life during their college summers to work as counselors. Youth
Corps, whose programs are often centered around Ivanwald-style
houses, prepares the best of its recruits for positions of power
in business and government abroad. The goal: “Two hundred
national and international world leaders bound together
relationally by a mutual love for God and the family.”

* * *

Between 1984 and
1992 the Fellowship Foundation consigned 592 boxes—decades of
the Family's letters, sermons, minutes, Christmas cards, travel
itineraries, and lists of members—to an archive at the Billy
Graham Center of Wheaton College in Illinois. Until I visited
last fall, the archive had gone largely unexamined.

The Family was
founded in April 1935 by
Abraham Vereide, a Norwegian immigrant
who made his living as a traveling preacher. One night, while
lying in bed fretting about socialists, Wobblies, and a Swedish
Communist who, he was sure, planned to bring Seattle under the
control of Moscow, Vereide received a visitation: a voice, and a
light in the dark, bright and blinding. The next day he met a
friend, a wealthy businessman and former major, and the two men
agreed upon a spiritual plan. They enlisted nineteen business
executives in a weekly breakfast meeting and together they
prayed, convinced that Jesus alone could redeem Seattle and
crush the radical unions. They wanted to give Jesus a vessel,
and so they asked God to raise up a leader. One of their number,
a city councilman named Arthur Langlie, stood and said, “I am
ready to let God use me.” Langlie was made first mayor and later
governor, backed in both campaigns by money and muscle from his
prayer-breakfast friends, whose number had rapidly multiplied.5.
As Vereide recounted in a 1961 biography, Modern Viking,
one union boss joined the group, proclaiming that the prayer
movement would make unions obsolete. He said, “'I got down on my
knees and asked God to forgive me . . . for I have been a
disturbing factor and a thorn in Your flesh.'” A “rugged
capitalist who had been the chairman of the employers' committee
in the big strike” put his left hand on the labor leader's
shoulder and said, “'Jimmy, on this basis we go on together.'”
Vereide and his new brothers spread out across the Northwest in
chauffeured vehicles (a $20,000 Dusenburg carried brothers on
one mission, he boasted). “Men,” wrote Vereide, “thus
quickened.” Prayer breakfast groups were formed in dozens of
cities, from San Francisco to Philadelphia. There were already
enough men ministering to the down-and-out, Vereide had decided;
his mission field would be men with the means to seize the world
for God. Vereide called his potential flock of the rich and
powerful, those in need only of the “real” Jesus, the
“up-and-out.”

Vereide arrived
in Washington, D.C., on September 6, 1941, as the guest of a man
referred to only as “Colonel Brindley.” “Here I am finally,” he
wrote to his wife, Mattie, who remained in Seattle. “In a day or
two—many will know that I am in town and by God's grace it will
hum.” Within weeks he had held his first D.C. prayer meeting,
attended by more than a hundred congressmen. By 1943, now living
in a suite at Colonel Brindley's University Club, Vereide was an
insider. “My what a full and busy day!” he wrote to Mattie on
January 22.

The Vice President brought me
to the Capitol and counseled with me regarding the programs
and plans, and then introduced me to Senator [Ralph Owen]
Brewster, who in turn to Senator [Harold Hitz] Burton—then
planned further the program [of a prayer breakfast] and
enlisted their cooperation. Then to the Supreme Court for
visits with some of them . . . then back to the Senate,
House. . . . The hand of the Lord is upon me. He is leading.

By the end of
the war, nearly a third of U.S. senators attended one of his
weekly prayer meetings.

In 1944, Vereide
had foreseen what he called “the new world order.” “Upon the
termination of the war there will be many men available to carry
on,” Vereide wrote in a letter to his wife. “Now the ground-work
must be laid and our leadership brought to face God in humility,
prayer and obedience.” He began organizing prayer meetings for
delegates to the United Nations, at which he would instruct them
in God's plan for rebuilding from the wreckage of the war.
Donald Stone, a high-ranking administrator of the Marshall Plan,
joined the directorship of Vereide's organization. In an undated
letter, he wrote Vereide that he would “soon begin a tour around
the world for the [Marshall Plan], combining with this a
spiritual mission.” In 1946, Vereide, too, toured the world,
traveling with letters of introduction from a half dozen
senators and representatives, and from Paul G. Hoffman, the
director of the Marshall Plan. He traveled also with a mandate
from General John Hildring, assistant secretary of state, to
oversee the creation of a list of good Germans of “the
predictable type” (many of whom, Vereide believed, were being
held for having “the faintest connection” with the Nazi regime),
who could be released from prison “to be used, according to
their ability in the tremendous task of reconstruction.” Vereide
met with Jewish survivors and listened to their stories, but he
nevertheless considered ex-Nazis well suited for the demands of
“strong” government, so long as they were willing to worship
Christ as they had Hitler.

In 1955, Senator
Frank Carlson, a close adviser to Eisenhower and an even closer
associate of Vereide's, convened a meeting at which he declared
the Family's mission to be a “worldwide spiritual offensive,” in
which common cause would be made with anyone opposed to the
Soviet Union. That same year, the Family financed an
anti-Communist propaganda film, Militant Liberty, for use
by the Defense Department in influencing opinion abroad. By the
Kennedy era, the spiritual offensive had fronts on every
continent but Antarctica (which Family missionaries would not
visit until the 1980s). In 1961, Emperor Haile Selassie of
Ethiopia deeded the Family a prime parcel in downtown Addis
Ababa to serve as an African headquarters, and by then the
Family also had powerful friends in South Africa, Nigeria, and
Kenya. Back home, Senator Strom Thurmond prepared several
reports for Vereide concerning the Senate's deliberations.
Former president Eisenhower, Doug Coe would later claim at a
private meeting of politicians, once pledged secret operatives
to aid the Family's operations. Even in Franco's Spain, Vereide
once boasted at a prayer breakfast in 1965, “there are secret
cells such as the American Embassy [and] the Standard Oil office
[that allow us] to move practically anywhere.”

By the late
sixties, Vereide's speeches to local prayer breakfast groups had
become minor news events, and Family members' travels on behalf
of Christ had attracted growing press attention. Vereide began
to worry that the movement he had spent his life building might
become just another political party. In 1966, a few years before
he was “promoted” to heaven at age eighty-four, Vereide wrote a
letter declaring it time to “submerge the institutional image of
[the Family].” No longer would the Family recruit its powerful
members in public, nor recruit so many. “There has always been
one man,” wrote Vereide, “or a small core who have caught the
vision for their country and become aware of what a 'leadership
led by God' could mean spiritually to the nation and to the
world. . . . It is these men, banded together, who can
accomplish the vision God gave me years ago.”

* * *

Two weeks into
my stay, Bengt announced to the brothers that he was applying to
graduate school. He had chosen a university close enough to
commute from the house, with a classics program he hoped would
complement (maybe even renew, he told me privately) his
relationship with Christ. After dinner every night he would
disappear into the little office beside his upstairs bunk room
to compose his statement of purpose on the house's one working
computer.

Knowing I was a
writer, he eventually gave me the essay to read. We sat down in
Ivanwald's “office,” a room barely big enough for the two of us.
We crossed our legs in opposite directions so as not to knock
knees.

My formal
education has been a progression from confusion and despair to
hope, the essay began. Its story hewed to the familiar
fundamentalist routine of lost and found: every man and woman a
sinner, fallen but nonetheless redeemed. And yet Bengt's sins
were not of the flesh but of the mind. In college he had
abandoned his boyhood ambition of becoming a doctor to study
philosophy: Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Hegel. Raised in the faith,
his ideas about God crumbled before the disciplined rage of the
philosophers. “I cut and ran,” he told me. To Africa, where by
day he worked on ships and in clinics, and by night read
Dostoevsky and the Bible, its darkest and most seductive
passages: Lamentations, Job, the Song of Songs. These authors
were alike, his essay observed: They wrote about [suffering]
like a companion.

I looked up. “A
double,” I said, remembering Dostoevsky's alter egos.

Bengt nodded.
“You know how you can stare at something for a long time and not
see it the way it really is? That's what scripture had been to
me.” Through Dostoevsky he began to see the Old Testament for
what it is: relentless in its horror, its God a fire, a
whirlwind, a “bear, lying in wait,” “a lion in secret places.”
Even worse is its Man: a rapist, a murderer, a wretched thief, a
fool.

“But,” said
Bengt, “that's not how it ends.”

Bengt meant
Jesus. I thought of the end of The Brothers Karamazov:
the saintly Alyosha, leading a pack of boys away from a funeral
to feast on pancakes, everyone clapping hands and proclaiming
eternal brotherhood. In Africa, Bengt had seen people who were
diseased, starving, trapped by war, but who seemed nonetheless
to experience joy. Bengt recalled listening to a group of
starving men play the drums. “Doubt,” he said, “is just a
prelude to joy.”

I had heard this
before from mainstream Christians, but I suspected Bengt meant
it differently. A line in Dostoevsky's The Possessed
reminded me of him: when the conservative nationalist Shatov
asks Stavrogin, the cold-hearted radical, “Wasn't it you who
said that even if it was proved to you mathematically that the
Truth was outside Christ, you would prefer to remain with Christ
outside the Truth?” Stavrogin, who refuses to be cornered,
denies it.

“Exactly,” Bengt
said. In Africa he had seen the trappings of Christianity fall
away. All that remained was Christ. “You can't argue with
absolute power.”

I put the essay
down. Bengt nudged it back into my hands. “I want to know what
you think of my ending.”

As I have
read more about Jesus, it ran, I havealso been
intrigued by his style of interaction with other people. He
was fascinated in particular by an encounter in the Gospel of
John, chapter 1, verse 35–39, in which Jesus asks two men why
they are following him. In turn, the men ask where Jesus is
staying, to which he replies, “Come and see.” I am not sure
how Jesus asks the question, Bengt had concluded, but
from the response, it seems like he is asking, “What do you
desire?”

“That's what
it's about,” Bengt said. “Desire.” He shifted in his chair.
“Think about it: 'What do you desire?'”

“God?”

“Yes.”

“That's the
answer?” I asked.

“He's the
question,” Bengt retorted, half-smiling, satisfied with his
inversion by which doubt became the essence of a dogma. God was
just what Bengt desired Him to be, even as Bengt was, in the
face of God, “nothing.” Not for aesthetics alone, I realized,
did Bengt and the Family reject the label “Christian.” Their
faith and their practice seemed closer to a perverted sort of
Buddhism, their God outside “the truth,” their Christ everywhere
and nowhere at once, His commands phrased as questions, His will
as simple to divine as one's own desires. And what the Family
desired, from Abraham Vereide to Doug Coe to Bengt, was power,
worldly power, with which Christ's kingdom can be built, cell by
cell.

* * *

Not long after
our conversation, Bengt put a bucket beside the toilet in the
downstairs bunk room. From now on, he announced, all personal
items left in the living room would go into the bucket. “If
you're missing anything, guys,” Bengt said over dinner, “look in
the bucket.”

I looked in the
bucket. Here's what I found: One pair of flip-flops. One
pocket-sized edition of the sayings of Jesus. One Frisbee. One
copy of Executive Orders, by Tom Clancy, hardcover. One
brown-leather Bible, well worn, beautifully printed on onion
skin, given to Bengt Carlson by Palmer Carlson. One pair of
dirty underwear.

When I picked up
the Bible the pages flipped open to the Gospel of John, and my
eyes fell on a single underlined phrase, chapter 15, verse 3:
“You are already clean.”

* * *

Whenever a
sufficiently large crop of God's soldiers was bunked up at
Ivanwald, Doug Coe made a point of stopping by for dinner. Doug
was, in spirit, Christ's closest disciple, the master bumper;
the brothers viewed his visit as far more important than that of
any senator or prime minister. The night he joined us he wore a
crisply pressed golf shirt and dark slacks, and his skin was
well tanned. He brought a guest with him, an Albanian politician
whose pale face and ill-fitting gray suit made Doug seem all the
more radiant. In his early seventies, Doug could have passed for
fifty: his hair was dark, his cheeks taut. His smile was like a
lantern.

“Where,” Doug
asked Rogelio, “are you from, in Paraguay?”

“Asunción,” he
said.

Doug smiled.
“I've visited there many times.” He chewed for a while.
“Asunción. A Latin leader was assassinated there twenty years
ago. A Nicaraguan. Does anybody know who it was?”

I waited for
someone to speak, but no one did. “Somoza,” I said. The dictator
overthrown by the Sandinistas.

Doug stared. I
stared back. “I liked to visit him,” Doug said. “A very bad man,
behind his machine guns.” He smiled like he was going to laugh,
but instead he moved his fork to his mouth. “And yet,” he said,
a bite poised at the tip of his tongue, “he had a heart for the
poor.” Doug stared. I stared back.

“Do you ever
think about prayer?” he asked. But the question wasn't for me.
It wasn't for anyone. Doug was preparing a parable.

There was a man
he knew, he said, who didn't really believe in prayer. So Doug
made him a bet. If this man would choose something and pray for
it for forty-five days, every day, he wagered God would make it
so. It didn't matter whether the man believed. It wouldn't have
mattered whether he was a Christian. All that mattered was the
fact of prayer. Every day. Forty-five days. He couldn't lose,
Doug told the man. If Jesus didn't answer his prayers, Doug
would pay him $500.

“What should I
pray for?” the man asked.

“What do you
think God would like you to pray for?” Doug asked him.

“I don't know,”
said the man. “How about Africa?”

“Good,” said
Doug. “Pick a country.”

“Uganda,” the
man said, because it was the only one he could remember.

On the
thirty-second day, Doug told us, this man met a woman from
Uganda. She worked with orphans. Come visit, she told the man,
and so he did, that very weekend. And when he came home, he
raised a million dollars in donated medicine for the orphans.
“So you see,” Doug told him, “God answered your prayers. You owe
me $500.”

There was more.
After the man had returned to the United States, the president
of Uganda called the man at his home and said, “I am making a
new government. Will you help me make some decisions?”

“So,” Doug told
us, “my friend said to the president, 'Why don't you come and
pray with me in America? I have a good group of
friends—senators, congressmen—who I like to pray with, and
they'd like to pray with you.' And that president came to The
Cedars, and he met Jesus. And his name is Yoweri Museveni, and
he is now the president of all the presidents in Africa. And he
is a good friend of the Family.”

“That's
awesome,” Beau said.

“Yes,” Doug
said, “it's good to have friends. Do you know what a difference
a friend can make? A friend you can agree with?” He smiled. “Two
or three agree, and they pray? They can do anything. Agree.
Agreement. What's that mean?” Doug looked at me. “You're a
writer. What does that mean?”

I remembered
Paul's letter to the Philippians, which we had begun to
memorize. Fulfill ye my joy, that ye be likeminded.

“Unity,” I said.
“Agreement means unity.”

Doug didn't
smile. “Yes,” he said. “Total unity. Two, or three,
become one. Do you know,” he asked, “that there's another word
for that?”

No one spoke.

“It's called a
covenant. Two, or three, agree? They can do anything. A covenant
is . . . powerful. Can you think of anyone who made a covenant
with his friends?”

We all knew the
answer to this, having heard his name invoked numerous times in
this context. Andrew from Australia, sitting beside Doug,
cleared his throat: “Hitler.”

“Yes,” Doug
said. “Yes, Hitler made a covenant. The Mafia makes a covenant.
It is such a very powerful thing. Two, or three, agree.” He took
another bite from his plate, planted his fork on its tines.
“Well, guys,” he said, “I gotta go.”

As Doug Coe
left, my brothers' hearts were beating hard: for the poor, for a
covenant. “Awesome,” Bengt said. We stood to clear our dishes.

* * *

On one of my
last nights at Ivanwald, the neighborhood boys asked my brothers
and me to play. There were roughly six boys, ranging in age from
maybe seven to eleven, all junior members of the Family. They
wanted to play flashlight tag. It was balmy, and the streetlight
glittered against the blacktop, and hiding places beckoned from
behind trees and in bushes. One of the boys began counting, and
my brothers, big and small, scattered. I lay flat on a hillside.
From there I could track movement in the shadows and smell the
mint leaves planted in the garden. A figure approached and I
sprang up and ran, down the sidewalk and up through the garden,
over a wall that my pursuer, a small boy, had trouble climbing.
But once he was over he kept charging, and just as I was about
to vanish into the trees his flashlight caught me. “Jeff I see
you you're It!” the boy cried. I stopped and turned, and he kept
the beam on me. Blinded, I could hear only the slap of his
sneakers as he ran across the driveway toward me. “Okay, dude,”
he whispered, and turned off the flashlight. I recognized him as
little Stevie, whose drawing of a machine gun we had posted in
our bunk room. He handed the flashlight to me, spun around,
started to run, then stopped and looked over his shoulder.
“You're It now,” he whispered, and disappeared into the dark.

Comment:
This was the second and last part of the story of Hillary
Clinton and her religious and political faith. Click
here to go to Part 1:. Wes
Penre,www.illuminati-news.com

Endnotes:

1. The Los Angeles Times reported in September
that the Fellowship Foundation alone has an annual budget of $10
million, but that represents only a fraction of the Family's
finances. Each of the Family's organizations raises funds
independently. Ivanwald, for example, is financed at least in
part by an entity called the Wilberforce Foundation. Other
projects are financed by individual “friends”: wealthy
businessmen, foreign governments, church congregations, or
mainstream foundations that may be unaware of the scope of the
Family's activities. At Ivanwald, when I asked to what
organization a donation check might be made, I was told there
was none; money was raised on a “man-to-man” basis. Major Family
donors named by the Times include Michael Timmis, a
Detroit lawyer and Republican fund-raiser; Paul Temple, a
private investor from Maryland; and Jerome A. Lewis, former CEO
of the Petro-Lewis Corporation. [Use the back button on your
browser to go back to where you came from. Editor's note]

2. According to the Los Angeles Times,
congressmen who have lived there include Rep. Mike Doyle (D.,
Pa.), former Rep. Ed Bryant (R., Tenn.), and former Rep. John
Elias Baldacci (D., Maine). The house's eight
congressman-tenants each pay $600 per month in rent for use of a
town house that includes nine bathrooms and five living rooms.
When the Times asked then-resident Rep. Bart Stupak (D.,
Mich.) about the property, he replied, “We sort of don't talk to
the press about the house.” [Use the back button on your browser
to go back to where you came from. Editor's note]

3. Gannon worked for Senator Don Nickles, then the
second-ranking Republican. The man who oversaw Ivanwald and
interviewed us for admission was a lawyer named Steve South, who
formerly had been Senator Nickles's chief counsel and was still
a close associate. [Use the back button on your browser to go
back to where you came from. Editor's note]

4. The Family's “financial precepts” apparently amount
to the practice of soliciting funds only privately, and often
indirectly. This may also refer to what some members call
“biblical capitalism,” the belief that God's economics are
laissez-faire. [Use the back button on your browser to go back
to where you came from. Editor's note]

5. As Vereide recounted in a 1961 biography, Modern
Viking, one union boss joined the group, proclaiming that
the prayer movement would make unions obsolete. He said, “'I got
down on my knees and asked God to forgive me . . . for I have
been a disturbing factor and a thorn in Your flesh.'” A “rugged
capitalist who had been the chairman of the employers' committee
in the big strike” put his left hand on the labor leader's
shoulder and said, “'Jimmy, on this basis we go on together.'”
[Use the back button on your browser to go back to where you
came from. Editor's note]

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